


mon petit miracle

by pthepolarbear



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: F/M, Historical References, I'll update tags as I go, World War I, World War II, i love lauri so much can you tell, obscure, this has been a draft for four months
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pthepolarbear/pseuds/pthepolarbear
Summary: The baby had lived.It didn’t make sense. The war, the destructive, terrible, downright evil war, had shown little mercy. It was its way. It ravaged through the French countryside, leaving death, heartbreak and little else in its wake. And yet, against the worst of odds, the baby had lived. Un miracle, the girl with the long brown hair had whispered over and over again with tears in her eyes, almost like a prayer, as the baby grabbed at her curls, dangling over her face. She was tangling them in her grubby little fingers, full of milk and content for the first time in days. Son petit miracle.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	mon petit miracle

**Author's Note:**

> this is a very obsucre fic for the 1917 fandom. i am very aware of that, but I hope that you'll still enjoy my deep dive into lauri and the baby from That scene because I love her so fucking much !! i just had this idea and I haven't stopped thinking about it since
> 
> note: this was originally supposed to be a oneshot but I lost motivation halfway through, so this will be updated soon

_They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,_

_In a Sieve they went to sea:_

_In spite of all their friends could say,_

_On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day,_

_In a Sieve they went to sea!_

_Far and few, far and few,_

_Are the lands where the Jumblies live;_

_Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,_

_And they went to sea in a Sieve._

_..._

The baby had lived. 

It didn’t make sense. The war, the destructive, terrible, downright _evil_ war, had shown little mercy. It was its way. It ravaged through the French countryside, leaving death, heartbreak and little else in its wake. And yet, against the worst of odds, the baby had lived. _Un miracle,_ the girl with the long brown hair had whispered over and over again with tears in her eyes, almost like a prayer, as the baby grabbed at her curls, dangling over her face. She was tangling them in her grubby little fingers, full of milk and content for the first time in days. _Mon petit miracle._

The girl was no older than 17. Lauri Dujardin of Écoust-Saint-Mein had survived a warzone, armed with nothing more than a hiding place and a baby that she’d found, the baby no more than a few months old and wailing for its mother inside of a small woven basket as explosions rocked in the distance. Lauri had known that it had been left there to die, and she knew that if she tried to save it, it would almost definitely get both her and the baby killed. But she couldn’t leave it. She just couldn’t, listening to the pitiful little cries, watching the way the baby’s wide, teary blue eyes searched Lauri’s face for answers of why it had been left alone for so long.

Lauri had no milk, she knew that. She had barely enough food for herself to last a day, let alone anything that the baby could consume. But then, miracle of miracles, the mysterious English soldier with the bloody head and the canteen full of milk had stumbled upon her makeshift home, lit only by the faint glow of an oil lamp. 

Lauri had never seen a man so... tired-looking. He’d swayed on his feet, his gait reminiscent of one of a drunkard. From what she could see of his head wound, he was severely injured. So injured, in fact, she was shocked that he was even upright in the first place- though she knew firsthand what adrenaline could do to one’s stamina. But none of that had seemed to matter to him once he’d laid eyes on the child. It was as though he had become a different man, his guarded nods and the tense set of his jaw traded for wide, uncertain eyes and soft smiles. And the child had loved him, cooing at the sound of his voice and reaching out to him, undeterred by the pain in his eyes. And it was as he spoke to her, in a language neither she nor the child could understand, that Lauri saw something else in his eyes- it was recognition.

He’d given them bread, he’d given them meat, he’d given them milk (wonderful _milk!_ ) and all Lauri could do in return was ask him to stay. She’d begged him to leave the terrible war behind, to stay in their safe little space until it all blew over until the gunshots and flares stopped firing above them. 

But to her great dismay, he’d left. He’d left as swiftly as he had come, his rifle clutched tightly in his hand and with fear and regret in his eyes. He’d stared at the baby on his way out, almost as if in apology, and Lauri had lost him, her miracle, to the sound of gunfire and angry shouts of “ _Engländer!_ ” 

She didn’t know what had happened to him. With his departure came the arrival of both morning light and a smattering of gunshots, and all Lauri could do was pray that he’d gotten out alive, though she knew it was less than likely. She was far too accustomed to death to expect it not to follow her around like a shadow. But she did know that he had single-handedly saved both of their lives, and when English troops entered the town a few days later and directed her and the baby to safety, she had desperately asked after him in her frustratingly broken English- but to no avail. None of the few soldiers who could understand her knew of a lone soldier passing through.

So she moved on. She searched any records she could get her hands on for any sign of the baby’s parents, but unsurprisingly came up empty. She was almost glad- she wasn’t proud of it, but the even just the thought of giving up the baby, after all of the horrors that they had been through together, filled her with dread. She found the two of them a place to stay, in a small town that was as far from the war front as possible. And finally, she allowed herself to give the baby a name, something she couldn’t let herself do when she’d been convinced of their imminent demise. 

Mireille. Her little miracle.

… 

When Mireille was 7 years old, she asked about her parents.

She was in bed, wrapped head to toe in a blanket to keep out the harsh cold of the blustery December night. Lauri was across the room in their tiny apartment, tidying up some clothes that were strewn across the floor. Her long hair cascaded down her back, and she was just about to climb into their shared bed herself. 

“Lauri,” Mireille began, eyes wide and her voice tilted up in that way children’s voices often are when they’re curious about something, “why don’t I have a real Mama and Papa?”

Lauri paused. She stopped what she was doing, looking back at Mireille with an expression on her face Mireille had never seen before. 

Suddenly Mireille felt scared- had she said something wrong?

“What makes you ask this?” Lauri walked slowly over to the bed, the unreadable expression still coating her features. 

Mireille’s confidence faltered. “Well,” she began, her voice much timider than it had been before, “Samuel from next door told me that he heard his Mama and Papa talking about you.”

Lauri registered Mireille’s words, and her face softened. She sat down on the bed next to Mireille, taking a hand and stroking it through her fine hair. Mireille relaxed into the touch, relieved she wasn’t in trouble and smiled sweetly. 

“What did they say about me?” Lauri asked softly, the sad twinge in her voice only just noticeable. 

Mireille thought for a moment. “Sammy didn’t hear all of it,” she began, thinking back. “He said that you were brave, but that you were also sad.”

There was a beat of silence. “Brave, huh?” Lauri twisted a strand of Mireille’s hair around her finger. “Well, that’s very nice of them.”

“Sam also said they were talking about my Mama and Papa.”

Lauri stopped playing with her hair. She made eye contact with Mireille, who was suddenly scared again. She looked as though she were making a decision, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. 

“Mireille, I am going to tell you a story,” Lauri said, and it wasn’t what Mireille had expected her to say at all. But Mireille loved Lauri’s stories, loved the tales of noble kings and beautiful princesses, of wild animals and magical fairies. “Can it be the one with the little talking cat who wears boots?” Mireille asked, eyes wide with excitement, but Lauri shook her head with a small chuckle. “No, no, _mon petit,_ this is a new story.”

“Oh,” Mireille said, her lips parting slightly. Lauri smiled at her, eyes filled with a complicated mix of adoration and apprehension, and began. “Once upon a time, there was a young girl.” 

“Like me?”

Lauri laughed, tapping Mireille’s nose gently with a finger and eliciting a small giggle from her. “No, no, this girl was still older than you. But she was young. She lived in a medium-sized house in a medium-sized town with a medium-sized family, and she was happy the way that she was.”

Mireille interjected suddenly. “Are you the girl?” 

Lauri stared at her. The low firelight gave her face a gentle look, softening out what few hard edges her face possessed. “Yes,” she answered after a while, slow and hesitating. Mireille nodded solemnly, and she gripped her doll tightly in her tiny hands and hugged it close to her chest. She knew this was no ordinary story, so she sat there, listening, completely enraptured.

“But then, one day, something terrible happened. It was…” Lauri trailed off, clearly struggling to find the right words. 

“Was it the war?” Mireille asked quietly, and Lauri’s eyes found hers, clearly startled by her bluntness. Mireille looked at her solemnly. Lauri swallowed before nodding. It looked like it hurt. 

“Yes. It was the war. It came, and suddenly, the girl’s life was entirely different. Her medium-sized world was gone, and she wasn’t safe anymore, and she didn’t know what to do. Her home, and her family, they were all…” Lauri trailed off, voice choked, and Mireille suddenly realized with horror that she was crying. Not knowing what else to do, she removed herself from where she’d been cocooned in the blanket and wrapped her tiny arms around Lauri in a hug. Lauri returned it with a watery chuckle, wiping her eyes and rubbing Mireille’s back reassuringly. “Sorry. I’m alright. Don’t worry about me.” 

She pulled away and continued the story, her cheeks damp but her eyes bright. “But then, the most wonderful thing happened. The girl found a baby. And the baby was just like her.”

“Where did the baby come from?” Mireille couldn’t help it, she interrupted the story again. 

Lauri gave her a melancholy smile. “The girl didn’t know where the baby came from, just that it wasn’t safe.”

“Oh.” 

“But she and the baby, even though they were together, they still weren’t safe. It was dark and loud, and they both were very hungry. So hungry, that it made their tummies rumble really loudly.” Lauri, a mischievous look in her eye, mimicked a growling noise and tickled at Mireille’s stomach, who giggled and shrieked.

Lauri laughed along with her, before quieting and giving her words a dramatic effect. “But suddenly, a mysterious soldier appeared.”

“Ooh!” Mireille’s eyes widened, “Like a prince!”

Lauri shook her head. “All of these questions! No, no, not like a prince, you little romantic.” 

“Oh, oh! I know! Like a knight in shining armor!”

Lauri chuckled, defeated. “I guess you could call him that, yes.” 

Mireille sat back, pleased. Lauri watched her fondly, continuing on. “This soldier was tall, smart, and very brave. He-”

“What was the soldier’s name?”

“Will you let me finish, you little rascal? Asking all of these questions are going to get you into trouble one day.” Lauri rolled her eyes, exasperated but fond, and Mireille grinned sheepishly at her in apology. “As I was saying,” she continued pointedly, “He found the girl and the baby, but he didn’t speak any French- he was an Englishman. He was running from the Germans.” Lauri’s tone became playfully confidential. “But the Englishman, you see, he had a magical bag.”

Mireille gasped. “Magical?” She asked, wonder lifting her words. Lauri smiled. “Yes, _mon petit._ Magical. Whatever he needed, he would always find it right there in his bag. If he needed, say, a pencil, or a loaf of bread,” she mimed opening a bag and lifting something out of it, “all he had to do was look inside it and there it would be.”

“That’s so cool!” Mireille gushed, mouth parted slightly. 

“So when the Englishman found the girl and the baby, with their rumbling tummies, he reached inside the bag and took out more food than the girl could possibly imagine. He had cheese, he had bread, it was a feast!” Her voice, which had been raised in grandeur, lowered. “But most importantly, he had milk. Lots and lots of milk, which was the baby’s favorite food. It was the most wonderful thing.” 

Her wistful tone suddenly darkened. “But then, the Englishman had to leave.” 

“What? Why?” Mireille’s face twisted in dismay. “He should stay! They needed him, he should have stayed with them forever, with his magic bag!”

Lauri’s face became sad. “Yes, well, he had more people to save, right?”

Mireille pondered this for a moment, and then sat back, dissatisfied. “He should have stayed.”

Lauri bit her lip, before giving a tiny nod. “Perhaps. But he left, and do you know what he did then?” Mireille shook her head, eyes wide and curious. Lauri smiled knowingly. “He magicked away all of the Germans who were trespassing in the girl’s town. Just like that, poof! They were gone!” 

“Poof!” Mireille echoed her, laughing in wonderment. Lauri joined along with her, pinching her cheek in affection, before looking down at her lap. “He was the bravest man I’ve ever met,” she said, quieter, a faraway look in her eyes. 

Suddenly she looked around, seemingly remembering herself. “Oh my, we’ve forgotten ourselves! It’s so late, we need to sleep in order to be all rested in the morning.” 

“No, Lauri, please!” Mireille groaned in protest, but Lauri ignored her, and instead rose quickly and walked over to the small fireplace that housed a roaring fire. She outed it and grabbed a handful of warm blankets that were piled nearby. She tossed them on the bed next to Mireille, who pressed her face into it with a sigh, reveling in the warmth. And finally, Lauri tucked herself in beside her.

They lay there for several moments in silence, but Mireille couldn’t sleep. Her mind was reeling, swimming with the image of a girl and a baby and a brave, magical soldier with a heart of gold, who could do anything he wanted to.

“Lauri?” She asked into the darkness, and Lauri hummed next to her to show she was awake. 

“Mm? What is it, Mireille?” 

“Did you ever see the Englishman again?” It was a simple question, quiet but earnest.

There was another long moment of silence. So long, in fact, that Mireille even started to wonder if Lauri had fallen asleep. She was just preparing to reach over and shake her just in case when Lauri spoke. “No, I never saw him again.” 

There was a long beat, Mireille not daring to speak. Lauri shifted around, tucking a strand of hair behind Mireille’s ear.

“Now, that’s enough questions for tonight, _mon petit_ , tomorrow is another day.” 

Mireille pouted, feeling a million more questions bubbling just below her throat and bursting to get free, but she swallowed them, following Lauri’s command. She shut her eyes, snuggling closer to Lauri, who wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in tightly. “I love you more than anyone or anything, Mireille. Don’t you ever forget that.” 

Mireille smiled. “I love you too.” 

And with that, silence fell, and within minutes, Mireille was asleep. That night, her dreams were vivid- she dreamt of a knight, handsome, intelligent, and brave, who kindly held out a hand to her and let her ride on the back of his horse. Together, they rode through the countryside, exploring the world. And there was nothing- no fire, no germans, no _war-_ that could stop them.

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is @SCH0FlELD (with a zero and an L), come and find me on there!


End file.
